


old soul, waiting my turn

by renlybardatheon (aheartcalledhome)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Gen, Meet-Cute, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartcalledhome/pseuds/renlybardatheon
Summary: Soulmate AU: People see a ghost-like apparition of their soulmate when their soulmate is near death. Either Jaime or Brienne (or both) experience this. For example (but definitely run with this anyway you like) Brienne might see an apparition of Jaime after he got his hand cut off.Or: A boy sneaks into Brienne of Tarth's childhood bedroom, but no one really gets what they want.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 69
Kudos: 134
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	old soul, waiting my turn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinceregalaxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinceregalaxy/gifts).



> so glad to be a part of this & get an opportunity to show off some skills! hopefully i didn't disappoint! title from "slow burn" by kacey musgraves!
> 
> xoxo, gossip girl

Brienne does not remember how old she is the first time Jaime appears to her, but she remembers how young he was. 

She remembers that he is round faced and red in the cheeks, his green eyes glassy and distant. His Kingsguard whites are slightly too large in the shoulders and waist, a man’s uniform on a lanky teenager. His blond hair curls down past his ears, making him look like a little cherub plucked from a painting of the Mother, but she knows strength when she sees it -- the thickness of his arms speak of hours hacking away at targets, both human and straw. A red and gold handkerchief knotted tightly around his wrist peeks out from under his sleeve -- a lady’s favor, perhaps his first -- and it’s almost enough to make Brienne slip into a fantasy of knights and damsels of all genders, saving and being saved in endless cycles.

(In the near but still distant future, she will see Tommen Baratheon in all his finery at a wedding, watching his older brother with fearful eyes, and think him to be the spitting image of this Jaime, this nervous little apparition with all too much to lose.)

“Who are you?” She asks.

There is a sinking feeling in her chest, but she chooses not to name it. To name it would give it power. How many times has her father said that words are wind? 

How many more times will he have to say it before she believes it truly?

“Jaime Lannister.” His voice is high and sharp with panic, like the whistles the hunters blow before the foxes close in on their prey. He pitches it lower when he speaks next, a pale imitation of the voice of a wizened warrior. “I’m Jaime Lannister.” He desperately sucks in a lungful of air, eyes wide with fear. He looks almost birdlike in the moonlight, fragile as the glass ornaments her father won’t let her touch. She is afraid to reach out toward him in case he shatters like a vase tumbling from its pedestal, nothing but clay dust and shards of pottery remaining to prove it had once been majestic. “Where am I? Who are you?”

When word of the defeat of the Kingswood Brotherhood had reached Tarth’s shores, Jaime Lannister had been praised as such an artist with his sword that Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, had knighted him right then and there on the battlefield, sword still wet with the blood of the outlaws they’d slaughtered. Brienne had felt a song was brewing in the little details. One that bards would sing for centuries. It had inspired her to train with a frightening intensity for weeks. 

If Jaime Lannister could be knighted at sixteen, so could she. If they could make exceptions for him, she would make herself an exception to every rule that dared stand in her way. 

She’d imagined a golden haired prince of a knight, but looking at Jaime now, she’d definitely imagined someone older, more dignified. She hadn’t imagined the newly minted man standing before her, still gawky and lanky but somehow beautiful in his awkwardness. 

She knows a thing or two about being awkward. She suffers no illusions of being pretty. She is far too old to dream of going to bed and waking up with a brand new face, a brand new demeanor, one that fits anymore. She has grown comfortable in who she is, as much as her Septa will allow her to, and every so often, if she is feeling particularly pleased with herself, she looks upon her body as a blessing she has raised from the ashes of others’ opinions. She feels pride then, heady and disorienting, as she spins this way and that to check if her shoulders truly have broadened as much as she thinks. It is a measure of how close she is to her goals, to how she has taken derision and armed herself with it.

Jaime Lannister will not know anything of that dirty pride, of the way every success is marked by grubby fingerprints and spilled tears. Awkwardness is a waystation for him. He is setting up camp for the night, on the way to better, brighter things. He does not live here. He does not know the customs, the familiar way she folds herself in and down when spoken to, because this is not a state of being. He is only a traveler, passing through.

“I’m Brienne.” She volunteers, with a wide, gap toothed grin. She likes to smile, for all the world will not let her. “Brienne of Tarth. My father is Lord of the island.” She is trusting in the way that lonely children are primed to be, not thinking a thing of inviting a strange, older boy into her space. She straightens the covers on the end of the bed, and he moves with the stiff uncertainty of someone used to rejection when she invites him to sit. “Where’d you come from? I didn’t see you when I went to sleep, and now you’re here.” She looks at her window with a frown. “Did you climb in?”

“I don’t know. I’m in King’s Landing. Or I was.” Jaime mutters, hanging his head. In the time she’s looked away, he's perched awkwardly on the corner of her bed like a kitten. “I suppose I’m on Tarth now.” He frowns. “If I can catch the next ship to Storm’s End, then the Kingsroad will take me straight back to King’s Landing.”

His fingers slip to his sword belt, and Brienne sits up straight, eyes drilling into the pommel, trying to memorize every detail. Jaime has a sword. A real sword. She could’ve guessed, given the Kingsguard cloak, but to see it is another thing entirely. She has never held a sword in her hands and she aches to, now. Jaime Lannister’s sword. She has only been allowed wooden swords in her training, and it has been made clear to her that even that is a kindness. She thinks Ser Goodwin is warming up to her now, but she can’t be sure until live steel is singing in her hands.

“I was…” He rubbed his forehead. “Why haven’t you called the guards yet? I could be dangerous!”

“You don’t look dangerous.” She shrugs. “Besides, if you draw your sword, I’ll duel you.” She doesn’t realize that she’s threatened a member of the Kingsguard until Jaime grins like he’s stolen the last honey cake from the kitchens. She squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up, like she’s seen her father do during the few times that Selwyn of Tarth has been backed into a corner. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jaime shakes his head, looking more than a little baffled by her challenge, and his smile stretches tentatively before fading away. “I was doing something. Something important. Something that needs to be finished.” He says darkly. He stands up from the bed, but the blankets aren’t ruffled. “And I need to be there to finish it. I can’t be here.” He picks at his sword handle nervously. Little splotches of dried blood flake off, but disappear into the air. Perhaps it is a trick of the light. Or maybe it is something more. “I can’t be-- Who knows what they’ll have done, while I’m gone?”

It all puzzles Brienne before she realizes the cloak he’s wearing is only being dyed white by the moonlight. The rest of him, even the slight blur of the scruff along his jawline, is translucent, only a suggestion of color that she had lent vibrancy, lent credence, lent her own strength. If she focuses hard enough, she can see the patterns on her wall through his left ear. She stands, then walks to the window, hoping that her nervousness isn’t too apparent. 

From her new vantage point, he hardly looks real at all. If she squints, he nearly disappears, the edges of him blurring into oblivion.

She opens her window a little wider, and looks back over her shoulder to notice Jaime wobble in the wind, his sharp edges wavering like a flag in the wind. As much as she wants the shiver to be from indecision, from worry, from a thousand other harmless things, Brienne of Tarth knows better than anyone else that things do not just happen to her. There is no rhyme or reason to the universe’s cruelty, it only ebbs and flows like the ocean surrounding Tarth, always seconds from swallowing the island down into its depths, never to return.

Jaime Lannister is dying and if she is seeing this desperate shout of a soul seconds from oblivion truly, then he is her soulmate.

**Author's Note:**

> now that i'm no longer anonymous, [come chill with me on twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aheartcalldhome) if you want to make a friend! thank you so much for reading! i feel honored to have my work up alongside that of such great authors and would love to thank sinceregalaxy for giving me such a great prompt!
> 
> much love,  
> s


End file.
